…that is all we have in our back pockets

The fruit will let you know them. But the seed made them. An Osama here an Obama there. It’s the seed.
We create the burden of burdens and blame them for existing. There’s only so much torture a soul can take.
We are the traffic wardens on the road to hell. Condemning the lost into hopelessness and parading our cosmetic righteousness as salvation’s seal. The bread of sorrows dipped in the wine of tears. The only meal we serve each other but we advertise the finest on the menu.
We quench the Spirit as we quench others’ spirit then toss their broken spirits into graveyard trash.
We should not be able to forgive our own hypocrisy, sycomphancy and innocent malice. But we live with ourselves because of grace yet let us pretend that it does not exist.
One day, we shall speak.
Whether from beyond the grave our legacies will call or our voices be heard while we breath, we do not know.
We sure hope it is the latter.
Hope, that is all we have in our back pockets.

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Published by: Akyempo

i met the Priest...i realised that though society seems to respect the baker and despise the shepherd, the baker is not happy despite his stability and the shepherd is free to pursue the pyramids, because he is a dreamer; and one day he will meet Fatima. I am the boy; the shepherd.

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